


how rare and beautiful (it truly is that we exist)

by towfriends



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 13:34:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14403207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towfriends/pseuds/towfriends
Summary: On this day of every year, an inevitable event occurs to shift their already strange relationship. Sometimes, they reach the pinnacle of galaxies, standing on top of the world. Other times, they get dragged down by the deepest pits of a black hole, grasping onto each other like a desperate lifeline. Perhaps it's truly an effect of Mercury in retrograde. Or it's just Marina's birthday. Whatever it may be, no entity in the universe's vast expanse can compare to two beating stars in sync.





	how rare and beautiful (it truly is that we exist)

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooo. So I got this odd idea after seeing all those birthday posts for one reputable jacket-changing ice dance coach and it got me wondering how her best and most badass ex-students dealt with it, the aftermath, and each other.
> 
> *insert obligatory why am i writing rpf note here*

**april 9, 2004**

  


It is a small, unassuming envelope. Tessa had chosen the color teal after forcing Scott to another rewatch of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and the bookstore didn’t have robin egg blue. On the back is Marina’s name in her shaky cursive, and she has half a mind to rip it out and throw it down the pavement.

“That card is fantastic, Kiddo,” Scott says as his truck stops into its assigned parking spot, and he brushes past her leg to open the door for her. “You did great, you always do.”

“Scott, why are we doing this again?” Her hands twitch on the open flap, yet to be licked shut. It had been his idea to get their new coach a birthday gift, to strengthen their bond, he’s said. She couldn’t tell him that bonds aren’t forged on processed cards. They’re made through adamant commitment, for example, ditching hockey or ballet for skating partner despite any uncertainties that may arise.

“Because it’s the nice thing to do.”

Later:

“Thank you, Scott,” Marina says, “and Tessa too,” after a pause.

Tessa doesn’t hate their new coach, she hasn’t been around her yet to make an informed decision, even after months of coaching. (And she misses Suzanne.) The woman’s stellar reputation precedes her – it is why they moved here in the first place – but beyond the ice must lie another person for sure. Tessa loosens her lips a little as she must not have hidden her true feelings well enough. Or her face is a stark contrast to how the hazel in Scott’s eyes has disappeared with his wide smile.

“You’re welcome, Marina,” Scott says, his arm wrapped around her, “but it’s really Tessa who did most of the work there. She wrote the note because my writing sucks and she picked the envelope too. Didn’t you, Tutu?”

“Yes,” is all Tessa can say back.

Meryl and Charlie drop by even though they don’t have practice. Although Tessa has to blink twice to be sure it is Meryl as the basket of flowers on her petite hands obscure her face from view. Marina walks, almost runs towards them as Tessa tries to listen to Igor’s critiques on the step sequence. Instead, she hears Marina thank their training mates in the same breath.

The extravagant bouquet dies two weeks later. Their card is tacked in a battered corkboard, a blip in papers of schedules in strategies, but it remains there.

“Happy to be home, T?” Scott asks as he drives them towards the border.

“You can say that.” She can’t figure out if it’s the sun or her grin that bounces off the bright wing mirror.

  


-

  


**april 9, 2005**

  


“How much?!” Scott tugs the receipt from Meryl’s hand. The scented parchment rips on a corner, and Tessa tiptoes behind him to peek over his shoulder. His thumb runs over stamped designer insignia, and beside it is the amount written in ballpoint ink. Two hundred dollars. American. She holds onto his jacket to pull herself up, just to make sure she isn’t mistaken.

It had been Tessa’s idea this time, for the four of them to split on one gift. No one gets to be over or under. She’s acquainted Marina a bit better now, but there is no way she’s buying jewelry on her own. Scott had been the one to break it to their training mates, who remain to be as inoffensive as baby soap (so far).

“What’s the matter?” Charlie asks, teasing in his tone. “Your Canadian money can’t handle it?”

“Charles,” Scott begins, waving the receipt to Meryl, who takes it while rolling her eyes to feign annoyance. Tessa’s pink guards settle back on the floor, and she smiles from the security of her skating partner’s back. Her throat constricts when his shoulders tense, ripples on his growing body, as he reaches into his back pocket. He hands Charlie a crumpled hundred dollars in one bill.

“Didn’t I kill everybody at pool last night? Including yourself,” and Scott finishes, a victorious smirk on his lips. Charlie accepts the money with a nervous snicker.

“That’s from Tess and I, alright? She’s saving up for her own birthday and you two better stop leeching off her.”

Later:

“You didn’t have to do that,” Tessa says as they go on laps around the rink. Meryl and Charlie are a yard behind. She notes that her statement can apply to herself, as well – she really didn’t have to whisper into Scott’s shoulder.

“Okay, Kiddo, anything for you.” He shifts their dance hold to simply fingers interlocking with the other. As his thumb runs along the outside of her palm, the heat from his hands seeps up her arms, her neck, until it appears as a faint pink on her cheeks. Thank goodness for jackets.

After they all get off the ice, Meryl gives Marina the professionally-wrapped gift, adorned in sashes that tear apart in seconds. “This don’t excuse any of you,” the coach grumbles as they crowd around her. “Need more practice. No one get rusty.”

Marina opens the velvet box and pulls out a sparkling bracelet adorned with four charms: a dog, a book, a hockey stick, and a pair of ballet shoes. Tessa and Scott look on, hands still intertwined. Charlie helps with the clasp, and their coach’s face lights up worthy of a Kiss and Cry and a podium finish.

“This too much. But thank you. All of you.”

  


-

  


**april 9, 2006**

  


The restaurant, just a few minutes away from the rink, requires business formal, and everyone is bringing (or trying to bring) their best foot forward. Meryl’s wearing an ensemble she can’t shut up about the whole week prior, Charlie’s sideburns are still red from a fresh razor, Tessa’s breaking in new kitten heels, and Scott’s baseball cap swings on the edge of his chair. Their eyes shift to one another, thick quiet against the other tables’ chatter. But it’s Marina’s choice and Igor is paying, so no one says a word.

“I think I’m just going to have the house salad, no vinaigrette, no fish,” Meryl chirps at the server.

“So the wabbit special,” Scott remarks from across the table, not even looking at her. Beside him is Tessa, hiding her giggles with the menu. They didn’t plan it, but his button-up complements her sundress. (His is navy, hers is sky.)

“Beef tenderloin, cooked medium, and swap the potatoes for actual vegetables,” Charlie says with a suppressed grin, trying not to react to the joke.

“Same here, but medium rare,” Scott chimes in, “and swap my mash for frites. We’ll always share, right Tutu?”

Tessa doesn’t reply, her brows now furrowed over the extensive selection. She's craving grilled chicken, even if it’s peppered with mere salt or there’s no dip, and all the colour will only come from charcoal and ash – but she remembers Meryl’s order, and even their coach has only asked for bouillabaisse.

“Just a Caesar salad for me please, but no dressing,” she says while staring at the blurb for cordon bleu.

“Still has bacon and cheese though,” Meryl says as she texts on her flip phone, keys clicking in rapid succession. Tessa wonders if it’s a message to Tanith, who keeps advertising that she hasn’t had chocolate milk since she was twelve.

Later:

The Tim Horton’s in Canton, which is open twenty-four hours, is located way past the suburbs, beyond uniform manicured homes. It is the sole open establishment in the street, eclectic neon reflecting on asphalt road. Tessa didn’t even notice Scott’s driven past their host families’ houses as she had been busy chewing at her bottom lip, toying with the car radio, and trying not to focus on the gnawing in her belly in general.

“Why are we here?” she asks as he opens the door for her. Shivers creep up her spine as his hand settles on the small of her back, and she exhales in relief as ringing bells swallow her tiny wheeze. The shop is tumbleweed empty, save for themselves and the sleepy employees cleaning spotless counters.

“You didn’t get dessert,” Scott murmurs, the first words he’s said since they all parted ways after dinner. “I got the molten lava cake because I thought we were sharing, but you kept talking to Meryl. She wasn’t even on our side of the table.”

He escorts her to a plastic booth and makes her sit first as if they’re still in the restaurant, violins trill on speakers, and one of the lights isn’t flickering on and off. Her fingers tap to the drum of a pop song as he goes to order. Only then does she notice that his hand has left her back. It may be from the lack of frozen water, but he feels warmer than normal.

He gets a double-double for him, a hot chocolate for her, and a half box of whatever pastries left on display. It shouldn’t surprise her that five out of six donuts are chocolate-related, but it does, and she gazes up to him drinking coffee. The lid is not enough to hide the smile on his lips.

“I could’ve had the perfect set, but they ran out. That old-fashioned can be a palate cleanser,” he offers. He holds his paper cup tight, almost grounding himself to it, but his Nutella eyes follow her hands that gingerly take a glazed donut.

Tessa only eats the one and a half of a chocolate-dipped, the other half he’d taken after she had to feed him herself. Her index had gotten caught in his mouth, and she’d disguised her hiss from the scalding hot chocolate. For someone who’s never been into sweets, the touch of his tongue has left her finger sticky. They give the rest of the box to the night shift, who stare at them as if they’re made of gold.

“We are,” she blurts out, ridding confectionary sugar from her mouth with a handkerchief. “We just won gold in Slovenia. But, we still couldn’t get to the Olympics, so I guess we’re also not.”

“Aren’t y’all thirteen?” an employee asks, eyes red and munching on a fritter, filling bursting at the seams.

“Well, you’ll see us in Vancouver when we’re seventeen,” Scott answers, nonchalant.

“You really think so?” It is Tessa who replies, heartbreak and hope in her voice as her mind takes her back to that fateful day. Bronze has never felt heavier, and the word alternate will haunt her for a long time.

“I’m hella sure, T. You’re the best one out there.” His treacle finger touches the tip of her nose, and pink sprinkles stay on the bridge. She shakes her head.

“We,” she corrects, glossed lips pouting.

The night is finally taking her with repeated yawns as they make their way back to his truck, and he strokes her newly dyed hair in response. He hasn’t said a word about it before, unlike Meryl, who’s been hounding her for the exact colour, or Charlie, who had to ask what’s the difference. Scott had just been staring, with the knowledge that he’s the only one who can penetrate past this new barrier. Her stomach is full, and she has never felt lighter.

  


-

  


**april 9, 2007**

  


“Where on earth is he?” A piercing hiss fizzles out the noise from the party – which is either an elegant get-together arranged in the Davises’ household while parents are away on another fix-it cruise on the Caribbean, or a Nutcracker-themed atrocity where a music box of a ballerina stands as a table centerpiece, Tchaikovsky plays through authentic scratched vinyl, and bottomless supply of Russian Pinot Gris is the only good factor at the moment. Tessa wishes Meryl didn’t have to be so on the nose about Marina’s birthday.

“Tessa!” Meryl catches her attention this time, and Tessa stops fiddling with her first stemmed glass of the evening, almost empty. She nods in acknowledgment, but her eyes remain on the street of parked cars, waiting on one more. Maybe she shouldn’t stand in the doorway.

“Virtue,” Meryl presses, a bit calmer this time. She’s wearing a frilly pink dress that makes her more minute. “Charlie’s been trying to contact him all day and his phone died from it and he forgot his charger. Are you sure you haven’t seen your partner?”

Partner. Her bottom lip juts out, and she covers it with more hints of oak and smoke and honey and whatever bullshit they put in the description of that old bottle. Bitterness soothes her throat, setting her burning insides further to a crisp puzzle. Her insides gurgle, rebelling or reveling, that despite this dinner’s decent take on traditional cuisine, Scott’s takeout burrito from morning practice is still the best thing she’s eaten today. (She’s always been a sucker for breakfast, and a caring but untouchable skating partner, apparently.) The gagging taste of egg and sausage lingers, and she wonders why not even the sight of him cooing to someone else on his ancient, camera-less phone can wash her of him – not even just for a night, or any of the failed dates she’s been set up with the past few weeks.

“I’m not his babysitter,” Tessa replies, spitting on every word, her voice jagged. Or his girlfriend – especially not on the cusp of their senior career. She doesn’t say any of this, but Meryl shakes her head anyway. However, she cannot comment further as from the hollow dining room, Marina and her husband beckon for more beef stroganoff made by hidden sugarplum fairies in the kitchen. Footsteps drown in cricket sounds.

Scott’s pick-up truck can be heard from a mile away, cement grinding against winter tires, still unchanged, no matter how many times she’d told him to do so. It zigzags slightly from left to right, causing the headlights to shift from one picket fence to another on either side of the road. The familiar four chords from that annoying dixie horn reverberate from the vehicle, even louder than the engine’s fiery rumble, and that noise can only come from his steering wheel. By some miracle he parallel parks smack dab in between Igor and Charlie’s cars, both unscathed. He’s been touted a prodigy for a reason.

“Teeee!” Tessa discerns his voice isn’t slurred from distortion of the car door slamming nor beeping from the ignition. That his hair isn’t sticking out from too much clay dough or from the dense wind chopping through the air. She clutches her drink close to her chest, in the same vice grip he possesses over the self-wrapped gift in his hands, veins evident under the haze of cloudy dashboard light. She hides her smile through the guise of wine – her fire still aching to set him aflame – but it is so Scott to wear squeaky sneakers when Meryl has explicitly said black tie.

“Teeee,” he slurs again, more subdued this time, to contrast his bear hug attacking her whole body. Liquid sloshes in between them, her strapless dress protected by curved glass. She surrenders her drink to a side table as his gift hits the back of her neck, pulling her close to him, sincere and demanding. Mud-coloured lipstick dirties the left side of his face – creased temple, cutting cheekbone, diamond jawline – tainted by a trinket from home, and suddenly training in Michigan even during off-season sounds appealing. Her lips, now a palette of aged grape and cherry, ghosts down his loose collar and settles on the pulse point, throbbing with every heartbeat, and desire to soothe increases tenfold. Green eyes widened, realizing what’s happened, so she licks over the mark simply to erase it, but prominent red only smudges into delicious flesh. Expensive foreign alcohol holds nothing on sweat and sample-sized Drakkar Noir and sweetgrass from playing ball in the afternoon.

“Have you been drinking since we last saw you?” she asks as a formality, begrudgingly pulling away from his embrace, pushing him onto the front door’s etched wood, closing them to the night and into the dimly lit hall. He breathes loud, chest rising and falling past the wrinkles on his lily-white shirt, red clip-on tie hanging onto the thin lapel of his black blazer. Tugging on the flimsy strip of fabric, she tosses it aside, hitting a framed family picture before landing on stone tile. His mouth gapes open, and she expects an explanation, but instead, he tilts his head to the side, puppy eyes in full effect. She slaps his arm playfully, a little too hard.

Later:

To Meryl’s dismay, Charlie’s surprise, and Tessa’s amusement, Scott and his badly-wrapped present win the Marina happiness meter. A custom planner tailored to next season’s schedule beats imported Matryoshka dolls, a gift certificate to a spa, and a stripped brimmed hat. Igor turns off the record player after the infinitieth cycle of Clara and Prince Charming, and dessert is just clinking forks over precious china, a trifle that is both hot and cold. Gushing chocolate comforts Tessa through the odd dish, while beside her, Scott laps his plate up in between required gulps of water. No one offers him any other beverage.

“That’s what you get for being late,” she hums below his ear, almost hitting the faded mark – her mark – with her teeth. One of his hands lands on the hem of her rose dress. A breathless pant escapes her drying throat, her wine glass sitting on the table idly. She coughs in recovery, and he chuckles in reply.

“Thanks for watching out for me, Kiddo,” he says, running his pinky on the excess cream off his plate. The childhood nickname rubs her the wrong way when he brushes that finger on chocolate-stained tongue.

“You’ve been doing the same for me,” she says, her voice higher than normal.

Across the table, Charlie chugs his wine and Meryl’s pursed lips unfurl, malice on its tip, her zeroed eyes dead concentrated on Tessa and Scott.

  


-

  


**april 9, 2008**

  


Dinner had been an absolute disaster. How convenient is it that Meryl’s decided to join her parents on another cruise, that Charlie’s gone on a trip abroad for school, that Igor’s down with the flu? On all the days for fate to play tricks, it had to be this one. Tessa hasn’t said a single word since they all left the restaurant with tight smiles and gruff handshakes – Marina and her husband, her and her boyfriend, and Scott in his equally gorgeous sportscar, brand new and obnoxious, after his (originally Danny’s) truck let out its final sputters on their most recent joint trip past the border. It’s been two weeks since that last good day, and it will probably be the only time silver can feel golden.

“My host parents are waiting for me,” she orders the man on the wheel. She doesn’t have to tell him to get a haircut before a competition, he appreciates her desire for a Pride and Prejudice program, and five o’clock shadow suits him well – meanwhile, Scott still gets asked for his driver’s license after they’ve shown their passports to the patrol officer. Fedor takes a turn without warning, no U-turn sign ignored, causing one of her knees to hit the glove compartment. She hisses, and he doesn’t respond. But he’s older and distinguished, so this is fine.

To the rest of the table, Scott had been a proper gentleman during dinner, but Tessa can see through that bravado. He doesn’t dress up in a pressed white shirt, seaweed pocket square, and intricate black brogues – he didn’t even make this much effort last banquet. When he smiles at the hostess, he’s also entertaining the girl’s batting eyelashes. He greets Marina and her husband with a hug and a present wrapped in ribbons that even Meryl would even approve of, her boyfriend in a rough handshake that enhances the bones that have kept her safe all these years, but when he utters Fedor’s name through gritted teeth, he is staring at her directly – and she’s more naked under his gaze than from low cuts on the bottle green mini dress she’s been insisted to wear.

The car skids to a halt and her other knee hits the car door as if it’s pushing her to leave quicker. “Good night,” her boyfriend says, hard liquor in his throat, before shoving his tongue down her mouth without preamble. She lets him, for a while, but when she grabs onto his well-groomed mane she touches sandpaper and product, unlike the sun-kissed and water-sprinkled Bermuda grass from Scott’s hair that somehow manages to permeate her senses amid varying appetizers. (This time, her salad has no modifications. The one good result of Meryl’s absence.)

“Man,” Scott starts, slicing a primavera meatball, hands properly holding the utensils, “I should’ve brought a date.”

“The hostess was hitting on you,” Tessa blurts out before thinking. The spice on her chicken rubs off her lips, and her boyfriend spreads a calloused palm on her thigh, his other hand tending to garlic flatbread.

“You don’t need date,” Marina says in between sips of chowder. “We your date.”

“Why couldn’t your girlfriend be here, Scotty?” Fedor cuts in, his hand skirting under the hem of his girlfriend’s dress. “We’d love to congratulate her on the bronze too.”

Scott chews on his dish without sound, swallowing completely before speaking. Crisp lettuce snaps in Tessa’s teeth.

“Sick,” Scott answers. In the head, Tessa wants to add. She’s cornered him before, about why he’s bothering to get caught up in that girl’s mess when she’s going back and forth on him and her own skating partner and everyone is aware, but no one seems to care. His reply had been mute, a shrug loud enough to warrant a drink or two. That girl should’ve just stayed in singles.

“I’ll pass on your congratulations, though, she’ll appreciate it knowing it came from someone of your skill, dude,” Scott continues, placing his knife and fork at the four o’clock position, not even bothering to take a swipe at the remaining sauce on his bowl. His hands clasped together, elbows edging the table, looking to play for checkmate. “Anyway, I didn’t want to impose either. Maybe I shouldn’t even be here. I mean, this is a family affair from the future.”

Tessa cannot cook to save her life, but Thanksgiving traditions have taught her how to carve, so when the main course arrives, in the form of a big roast to share, she takes the opportunity and volunteers to cut. She slices through the meat with meticulous ease as Marina and her husband tell their preferred pieces. Her boyfriend makes his request clear by patting an oily hand on her ass. For the first time since he’s been seated Scott looks at her, his lips curled, and an eyebrow raised. He’s the only one not speaking, as he knows she knows what he likes. She stabs a breast into his plate.

“Easy, Tess,” he says, and she wishes it is. Dark brown, almost black eyes linger on her – hard, and she’s as plucked and grilled as dinner.

Tessa hopes they’re as easy as sneaking into her room, past her host parents watching late night news, crunchy snacks and vacuumed carpet helping her out. As effortless as adhering to a skincare routine, which has more steps than she has fingers and yet not a beat is skipped. Instead, they’re as difficult as shrugging off a too-tight dress and untangling stressed feet from gladiator heels that had been last year’s ill-thought gift from Charlie. (That same birthday, Scott had given her a first edition copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. She hasn’t read it yet; it rests with their medals in her sock drawer.)

Pale moon seeps through curtained windows, providing little light to the usual white and luminous space that is her room. Tonight, she lets the darkness reflecting her hazy state of mind take over. With only mismatching underwear on, she flops on the bed, her head hitting the Marvin the Martian body pillow, its uneven lumps she’ll never exchange. She can’t wait to have her own place.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she hisses, her voice echoing down the narrow hallway, where he, and no one else, stands on the other side.

“Aw, T, was that a swear?” he replies her favourite smile, the goofy one, forming on his lips. He walks back to her, restaurant noise drowning out the sleek leather on his feet. “I’m calling my mom, weren't you listening at the table?”

“Why are you being such an asshole?” she meets him in the middle, her shoes a thunder to his steps. “You were hitting on the waitress – “

“Hostess,” he butts in, unheard in her onslaught.

“You were making quips about not having a date when you could’ve brought your vapid girlfriend in that dumb ass car which will cause you gas money by the way,” her hands ball into fists, green eyes burning holes through his clenched jaw, “and – and what was that about stupid family affair, huh? You think I’m going to marry the guy?”

“Tessa,” he says, more pillowy than a marshmallow, taking her hardened knuckles to his lips. “You’re seventeen. We’re not from Kentucky.”

“Clueless reference, very funny,” she replies, tone resolute, yet her fists melt back into palms, sliding onto the shirt draping his strong shoulders. Grasping the spare fabric tight, carved marble skin almost meet sharp nails, and she squeezes harder, eager to draw blood. “How about dessert? Why were you licking that spoon so – so…lewd!”

“Because it’s apple pie and ice cream!” he exclaims with a guffaw, sticking his tongue out, and there’s no doubt he’s done it on purpose. She stomps on his shoe, digging her heel into its stitching, and he stops laughing. He holds her hips with fingers that’ll bruise her tomorrow, like he’s leading her into a rocker, and leads them into a wall that opens. The supply closet is dark, only to highlight the whites surrounding his irises.

“Why are you so riled up, Tess?” he asks, voice lower and raspy. He’s backed them into a shelf, metallic and cool reminiscent of ice beneath, but she stands straight, defiant. His hand caresses her hair, soft and slow, now back to black. She will never tell him, as he might already be aware, she’s giddy that Marina suggests they match. He plays with a few strands, curling them into tendrils that hit her face, and she blows it away at his direction. Inching closer to her, their faces mere millimeters, and it shouldn’t take her breath away for they do this all the time for programs. She wants to wipe the cocky smirk off his face.

(His cellphone rings in between their hips, and they separate, vibrations shaking to the core.)

Now, in thread-counted sheets, she hopes that the thin plaster is enough to contain her gasps. Under the faint moonlight and radio silence, she doesn’t know what glistens more: her eyes or her fingers.

In another house:

Scott collapses on a different girl’s back, forcing his entire weight on the body below without care.

“Can’t believe I crossed the border for you, piece of shit. Did you say Tess or Jess?”


End file.
